Kin of Klavis
by Spider Milkshake
Summary: A backstory to the characters of my other story, "The Night". It's the tribe of Klavis's origin! And the origins of Friggah the haremaid as well! WARNING: THERE WILL BE BLOOD
1. The Tribe of Mogja the Lethal

Kin of Klavis

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Chapter 1: The Tribe of Mogja the Lethal

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There was nothing like Mossflower woods in the Autumn. So like an oil painting the colors swirled and mulled together, orange, scarlet, maroon, vermillion, dusky brown and hints of lingering green; they jostled for attention in the eye of the ferret.

He was young, tall, lean, and thought to be very handsome. His father had been a Chieftain of a southern Mossflower tribe, and they shared an uncanny resemblance. They had the same cream-and-malt fur, the same sinuous frame, the same dark brown eyes. He wore the traditional garb of his tribe: A kilt-like garment made of a swathe of the skin of a deer. Nobeast aside from the clan Seers knew how their tribe had acquired such a hide, as stags and hinds were notoriously difficult to track and slay. What he did know was the meaning of the three paint smears he applied to his body daily.

Red in color from crushed ferric mudstones, two ran about his chest, joining together over his heart in a spiral, while the other decorated his face, a simple line pointing straight from his forehead to his nose. Two on the chest were for bravery and wisdom, or at least the hope that one so young would come across them, and the one on the face was strictly for the Chieftain's family. The dagger at his waist was shiny blue steel, its pommel holding a piece of brown quartzite and its handle wrapped with a thin cord of rawhide. It was a fine weapon even for his tribe, who were quite well known to their enemies and neighbors as master arms-makers. His shaggy headfur flowed freely down his neck, almost touching his shoulders. He couldn't be bothered to cut it.

The ferret shouldered his sack, filled with various results of the day's foraging. He had left the tribal camp yesterday evening, heading into an abundant section of the woodlands where few other hunters lived and few travelers were able to navigate. It was a wise choice-in the night and morning he had gathered and stalked prey non-stop, bringing in a goodly sum of dove, woodpigeon, thrush, small green frogs, and a cornucopia of wild vegetables and fruits. He was especially proud of a single large wild garlic he had found basking in the sliver of dawn light in a forest clearing. He took it as his blessing for the day; he loved garlic more than anything.

Now pawsore and weary, he trotted along the fringe of a great path that ran north to south, parallel to his tribe's lands. It was dusty and broad, beaten by the footpaws of many travelers and merchant caravans. Two had already passed him that morning, otters at the pulling shafts and wide-eyed mice and hedgehogs peering out from under the canvas canopies at him, no doubt speculating on the villainous nature of the "savage" crossing their paths. He found it great fun to make a sudden start towards the merchant parties, delighting in their zestful response and shrill squeals.

The tribal village was near. The young ferret turned off the big path and merged with the brush, following a narrow footpath partially obscured at the entrance by stretched meshes of wild grape and ivy. Hustling along, he could make out the cloaked form of the tribe's Seer on the path, waiting for him. Under the plain hooded brown habit-like garment the pine marten's gleaming black fur showed through on his nose and paws. He was a strange beast: Solid black from tip to tail with the exception of pale grey eyes. A silver medallion tinkled at his throat on a cord of twined flax.

"Good morning to you, my young lord Klavis," the marten Seer smiled at him, "I see you have been a very busy one."

"Good, yes?" Klavis shook the sacking lightly with a proud look on his face, "Birds, frogs, good ripe fruits and fresh woodland vegetables. Even a head of garlic."

"Thy father hath taught you well," the Seer bowed slightly, then beckoned him to follow his awkward hobbling gait, "Come, to camp with you. Thou art asked for by many beasts. Especially young Master Dankwood."

Klavis snorted and felt the urge to bark out a jovial laugh. Dankwood, the Over-Eager. Dankwood, the Competitive. Dankwood the Whining Weasel. Though he had never voiced those feelings to anybeast out loud, their confrontations and contests were always clear as water to a keen-eyed observer that the two did not get along. If Klavis took a fancy to javelin-throwing, then the same day Dankwood would have to try and throw one farther. If Klavis bragged about his alcohol tolerance, Dankwood would try to best him. What was interesting was that while Dankwood seemed competent enough to stand as an equal to the ferret Chieftain's son, he never seemed to win once the contests began. He always faltered and broke under stress, the pressure of the entire tribe's eyes too much for the weasel.

"What now, Fayron?" Klavis chuckled, "What is Dankwood up to?"

"There seems to be some question as to who art the best fire-builder of our number, and he hath offered up a challenge to you."

"Oh? What is this challenge?"

"I believe a challenge of difficulty, timed by an impartial witness," Seer Fayron explained as they entered the camp, "Both parties shall compete to light a fire and burn through a waxed string placed a distance above. Thou mayst only use one log, and 'twill be soaked in a water-barrel for three hours." The marten turned back to look on the ferret, "So, is this a thing thou wouldst play at?"

"Aye, I'll do it." Klavis grinned. They entered the village clearing, the wholesome smell of woodsmoke made more aromatic by burning sage leaves and lilac mingled with the faint odor of simmering stews and brewing beverages. A weaseless approached Klavis, holding out paws to accept his sack of supplies with a wink. Klavis flashed her a grin and scanned those tribebeasts he could see for his challenger. No such luck; it was possible Dankwood was simply not showing himself just yet, psyching himself up "offstage".

"Good job, friend!" a tawny, stocky weasel clapped him on the back, "You didn't happen to find any good fat woodpigeons while you were out, did you?"

"I brought three, actually. One is just for you, Uark." Klavis returned his companionly gesture, striding off with him to the side of one of the larger fires where an old stoatlady was watching a bubbling caldron of tomato and watercress soup with what looked like small bits of watershrimp floating in it. "Hast thou seen Dankwood this morning?"

Uark shook his head at his pal's antiquated mode of speech. "Nay, mate. He's been off skulking somewhere with his cronies. Enough about that fool. Taste some of this, why don't you. You've been going all night and probably haven't had a hot meal in a while, right?"

The old female stoat smiled warmly and handed him a wooden bowl and spoon. She ladled a generous amount into it as he sniffed the wonderful steam that arose.

"Smells very good. Tomato?" The stoatess nodded, picking up her knitting again.

"Where'd Fayron get off to?" Uark peered around. Klavis shrugged very slightly, trying not to spill the good soup as he spooned it down hastily heedless of its heat, "He led you in."

"Aye, he probably has other business to get to." Klavis licked tomato from his lips, "Father is always a bit demanding when it comes to Seers..." Uark chuckled and pulled out a piece of whittling from his breast pocket, then took out his knife. Klavis eyed the figure slowly emerging from the cylindrical segment of applewood. The face of a wolf was half-formed already, and the paralleled paws were rendered in superb detail. The ferret grinned. "Who is that medallion for? A maiden you are trying to impress, I presume?"

Uark shook his head and continued shaving tiny pieces of wood from the work. "No, mate. This one's all for me. Tell me, does it look right? I mean, is it looking like a wolf?"

"Aye," Klavis nodded and slurped the dredges of the bowl, letting to spoon fall in with a clank. "Looks very like a wolf. Only a fool would mistake it for anything else."

"Speaking of fools," Uark cast an eye far to his right, spying a group of beasts entering view, "Guess who just showed..."

Klavis's face lit up with an eager and savage grin.

"Dankwood."

The weasel, a hefty chestnut-furred specimen, had strode out from behind a grove of ash and willow trees on the far side of the encampment. He was flanked by two more beasts, one a stoat and the other another weasel, which were far less impressive looking than Klavis's rival. Dankwood's dark grey eyes stopped on Klavis and Uark and scowled deeply. Strutting over with his two escorts, the big weasel stopped a pace short of the ferret and crossed his meaty arms with a smirk.

"Well, Klavis, my old friend," Dankwood spoke through his thinly spaced lips, "How nice to see you so well. Have you a good hunting?"

"Very well, thank you," Klavis eyed him fiercely back, baring his fangs in a broad smile, "But I heard thou hadst a little challenge for me, a contest between us two good comrades?"

"Aye, the contest," the weasel slapped a paw to his face, as if he had completely forgotten during the "friendly" banter. "Word gets around fast, does it not? I take it you are up to it though."

"I am," Klavis rose, passing the bowl to the old stoatess, "Whenever you are ready, Dankwood, let the challenge begin!"

At those loudly pronounced words a tension broke. Creatures dropped what they were doing and crowded around, a sea of weasels, ferrets and stoats surrounding the two rivals. Dankwood gestured to one of his cronies, who slipped off behind one of the tents and shortly returned with a heavy tin basin of dirty water. The reason for the water's filthy state became quickly apparent; two logs sat on the bottom of the full basin, drenched thoroughly and leeching tannins into the once clean liquid.

"Start a fire with that before I can, and I shall call you a Chieftain's son!" the weasel smirked as he pointed to one of the logs. Klavis stepped up to the basin, his eyes roving about between the two logs. Stooping, he hauled the larger one out dripping and smiled.

"Take yours then, Dank, and we'll get started."

The weasel's grin faded. Staring at the ferret angrily, he wrenched the second log out of the water and held it up like a club.

"Right then." he growled, "Time starts...now!"

The two opposing forces moved apart. The ring of beasts widened to allow them space to work. The pair raced to gather what they needed.

Both seemed to have the same idea. Dankwood snuck a look over to where Klavis was scooping out a shallow pit in the sandy dark soil before doing the same. Weasels and ferrets broke out in murmurs and other such hubbub, while others began calling encouragement to their favorite party. Most were on Klavis's side, with only Dankwood's lackeys and a few bedraggled stoats cheering for the weasel.

A cream-hued paw snaked over to Uark, taking the hatchet the weasel had helpfully offered. With swift, short strokes, Klavis began driving the hatchet's steel head into the waterlogged wood, breaking off large pieces of sopping tree and tossing them aside. Dankwood looked up, snarled, and kicked out at one of the weasels helping him.

"Don't just stand there, fool. Get me an axe!"

Klavis reached into his beltpouch for tinder and came out with a ball of thistledown saturated with dried out pine resin. He placed the ball with delicate claws in the fire pit, then set to biting the axe into the wood he'd been given again. It was clear that, even though the log had been submerged for hours, that a small amount of dry heartwood remained in the center. Klavis dug it out fiercely with his claws when his axe became too heavy an implement. The ferret broke them between powerful paws into short lengths of kindling. Glancing over, he saw that his opponent was catching up, swinging away wildly at the log with a large wood-cutting axe. Shutting out competition once again, Klavis hunkered down and began laying the kindling over the ball of thistledown, careful to leave large aerating gaps in the construction. He took a moment to examine his work; he moved a stick a touch left, pulled some of the downy tinder out a touch, closed one gap a bit tighter. Finally, he nodded.

"Flint!" he called out. Dankwood whipped his head around briefly to watch a pair of stoats handing the Chieftain's son a piece of the dark stone and a bar of steel to strike it with. Scowling, he nudged his weasel lackeys roughly.

"Get me a flint too," he pinched their paws, winking knowingly. Faces whitening, the two looked at each other.

"Dankwood, that would be-"

"Shut your mouths, idiots," Dankwood growled, lowering his voice, "I know what 'twould be, just bring it and hand it to me with the flint, secret, mind."

The smaller of the two scurried off, pushing through the crowd of mustelids. Dankwood allowed himself a small smile.

"I don't like that fellow's look," Uark said as he watched Klavis striking the flint a few times to smooth the sparking edge out, "He's behind, but he's smiling."

"Don't worry about Dankwood," the ferret muttered breathlessly, lining up the steel and flintstone for his first real attempt, "He's full of his own bragging and bravado. He shall shape up in time-after I best him a few hundred times at everything!"

The little weasel returned, and for all the world appeared to be bearing only the standard steel and flint set. But as he handed it to Dankwood, the large weasel pricked the side of the stone, revealing a cavity covered by clay the same color as the flint. Drawing the object out and hiding it in the crease of his paw, Dankwood continued as if all was well.

"Go on, Klavis! Make that wretch sorry he challenged ye!" A young ferret cried out. Klavis concentrated hard on the small gap where he was sending the faint orange sparks, hoping with each strike of the steel that it would catch and send up the first little blue curls of smoke. It was taking a while longer than he would have expected-but that wasn't too odd. Even the dry-rotted heartwood could not be completely dry. And each spark would dry the kindling and tinder even more. Cheers rose from stoats, weasels and the numerous ferrets as a sizzle was heard, then the smoke rose. Klavis dropped down, his head level with the ground and began blowing gently and continuously until a shaft of orange translucent flame was breathed into life. Working at frantic pace lest the blaze run out of steam, he added splintered heartwood pieces by twos and threes. The fire licked them up greedily.

Dankwood made his move; he drew out the hidden object and popped a tiny cork from it. He tipped the vial discreetly into the center of his tinder pile, sending a splash of highly flammable animal fats into the already flammable down. Smirking in Klavis's direction, he set his flint down and scraped the steel rod down hard.

A fierce flurry of sparks flew into the set-up. A second later there was a pungent burning smell, then the whole wooden creation burst into flames, sending up a roll of blackish smoke. Spectators gasped, backing up a pace, as the initial burst died down somewhat and settled into a continuous burn, eating up the fuel the weasel had placed there and demanding more. Klavis chanced a look over and frowned, instantly knowing what had happened. But he did not speak up. His fire would die if he wasted time doing that. An old stoat and ferret, both grey in the fur, strode over upon seeing that both competitors had a flame. On frames of branches lashed with thin sinew ropes they strung a thin piece of twine, then placed the devices over each of the opposing fires. The goal now was to burn through the twine, and both ferret and weasel were inches away.

Despite Dankwood's cheating, Klavis smiled. He still had a trick or two up his sleeves.

Piling more wood on that looked as if it threatened to smother the blaze, Klavis dropped down to ground level again and gave a hearty blow. The flame responded, whooshing mightily and flowing up over the top of the newly piled fuel. At its apex it touched on the twine, and a thin wisp of grey smoke wafted off. Klavis gathered more fuel and proceeded to repeat the process. This time, the flame jumped up and over the level of the thin twine, causing it to glow orange at the middle and, to the raging cheers of the gathered beasts, snap in a shower of tiny coals.

Dankwood looked up at the sound of the raucous cheering, an ugly look forming on his handsome face. Standing with paws shaking, he ignored that the blaze he'd made had also just burned through the twine and stalked toward the ferret. He was hindered by the crowd of admirers around the Chieftain's son.

"The winner is Klavis, son of Mogja the Lethal," the old ferret announced at the top of his reedy thin voice, holding up the smiling ferret's paw. "He hast beaten the weasel Dankwood by a time of fourteen blinks and holds the new record for fire starting of this nature of five minutes and thirty-two blinks!" Roars of approval greeted this statement, and even the few who were in Dankwood's cheering section were forced to clap their paws out of respect, "Stand aside now, and let the winner pass! Prepare the loser for his Sign of Honor!"

As was custom with the tribe, the mustelids parted and allowed Klavis an open path to where the two elder beasts stood. The congregation turned to Dankwood, who no longer had to shove his way through as they were clearing a way for him. He strode up, trying to mask the look of contempt on his face.

Then, entirely opposite of the tribe of Mogja's tradition, the weasel wound up and launched a punch straight into Klavis's face.

A gasp of shock went up like a flight of startled quail from juniper groves. Immediately four ferrets and a weasel leaped forward into the space where the twos' paws were meant to meet in a firm shake, a sign of mutual respect. The ferrets grabbed Dankwood roughly and tried to haul him back, but the weasel was tough and full of rage at being beaten. He lashed out past the shoulders of the fight-stoppers, aiming for Klavis's face again but instead belting a hit on the jaw of the intercepting weasel. The creature staggered and crashed to the ground, a tooth falling out. More beasts were added to the pile gradually bringing the cheater down, and soon he was sputtering and foaming on the ground under the weight of ten ferret bodies.

"Stupid oaf!" Klavis said, leaning over where Dankwood's bulging eye could be seen poking out of the spaces in the limbs of those who held him, "Thou hast really done thyself well this time, eh? Was it too much to shake my paw and be done with it? Idiot!" A cream-colored paw kicked a swirl of dust towards what could be seen of the weasel's face.

"Eat crow, you-ugh!" Dankwood was hauled upright by a pair of weasels and a pair of ferrets far more muscular than himself. His footclaws scraped the soil as he was dragged backwards screaming and cursing Klavis's name. Fayron the Seer appeared as if by magic at the young ferret's side as he stepped out from behind a tent flap.

"I sawest what yon braggart did," the black pine marten murmured in the son of Mogja's ear, "Thou did well to best him, even considering his dishonesty."

"Thank you, Fayron," Klavis jumped at the voice but remained polite. Uark pushed his way through the gossiping and yammering mob of tribesbeasts and joined the pair by the tents.

"Hell's Fangs!" the weasel exclaimed, "Did you see... I mean, whoa, was that not amazing? As in, amazing and horrid." He corrected himself, "I would ask what Dank's problem is, but that's no mystery. I knew he hated you, but damn, that's a long way to go for a grudge..."

"Dankwood is ambitious," Klavis shrugged, "I think he wishes to be Chieftain, but knows that our tribe's laws would not allow him to just knock me over and take it." The ferret laughed and cracked his knuckles, "Assuming that wouldst even be possible..."

Fayron glanced down through the shadows of his habit's hood at the bold youngster. Shaking his head, he meandered slowly back into the forest of canvas, heading for the center and the Chieftain's tent.

* * *

Klavis's father was the legendary Mogja the Lethal, a large ferret of considerable experience and cunning. He was silver all over with age, but still looked as strong as he did in youth, with sinewy arms and legs and narrow, fierce amber eyes. He sat in his tent on a chair constructed of lashed bones of myriad species of bird, overlaid with pelts for comfort. His claws tapped anxiously on the smooth white surface of the chair's arm. Fayron was due to give him news of a new omen this morning, but he was late. Delayed by something, perhaps. It was too long a delay for the ferret Chieftain's liking.

Taking a pull at a goblet of damson wine at his right, he returned his gaze to the door flap with a jerk of shock. Fayron had arrived without him noticing. The ferret caught his breath quietly, hoping the pine marten had not noticed, then beckoned his Seer forward.

"Come, Fayron, what hast thou seen?"

Fayron shuffled to the place where he was expected to kneel and did so, lowering himself to the earthen floor and settling on a rush mat in front of the coals of a small heating fire.

"I have had many visions in the hours of night, my Chief, "the black beast said as he rummaged in a pocket underneath the folds of his plain garment, "Strange visions. It took a long while to begin to interpret them, e'en with my great wisdom to do so. But I have done it to thy satisfaction, I think." He drew out a pawful of herbs, some which looked like sage flowers and others which closely resembled spear-shaped leaves from some thorny brush, "Let me just build up this flame more, then I shall begin..."

"Do't." The silver ferret watched intently as the sable-furred creature bent and settled thin branches over the coals and blew, igniting tentacles of flame over the dull red glow. "Art thou ready? Begin!"

Nodding his head, the pine marten sat cross-legged in front of the fire and ritualistically sprinkled the herbs over it. They smoked and sputtered, still heavily green, and sent up a pleasing aroma in the form of a whitish fog throughout the interior of the tent.

"Late last night, while thy son Klavis was away on his hunt, I had a waking dream which somebeasts call a vision," the pine marten paused. Mogja had leaned forward, riveted and eager for the information, "In the vision, I could see a vast river, far larger than any other our tribe has come across. It was almost as if I were staring across the sea, with the exception of the barest glimpse of another shore through the mists. On this river I did see a pair of reeds, one was dun and fruitful, the other greyed and withered. They bent with the current and crossed each other."

"Reeds and rivers? Is that all you have prophecies on?" The ferret scoffed, "Tell me what thy dreams mean and I shall be impressed."

"My Chief, that it not all I saw," Fayron bowed his head and continued with paws over the blaze, "Presently I became aware that I was not alone. As I turned around to face the land, a flight of doves wheeled in from the left and landed on the ground before me. These were very strange doves. They were red, redder than the clay paint which adorns us. Then, from the right, came a flight of vultures, vast birds. They were a shade of deepest blue. And from the center a great raven, all in white plumage, flew down and landed before me."

"Blue vultures, red doves, and a white raven..?" Mogja leaned one cheek on his paw, one eye narrowing. Fayron nodded.

"Aye, my Chief, let me explain," he continued, "The birds were meant to stand in the stead of some greater trouble, methinks. They are symbols. Symbols art everywhere in the realm of dreams and visions."

"Uh-huh, go on then," the Chief growled.

"The colors, upon the specie of birds in particular, troubles me, my Chief." Fayron stared into the lowering flames, "The dove has long been held as a symbol of peace, yet the doves that I saw were red as if drenched in blood. Mayhap our peaceful period will come to an end soon..."

"Let it!" The Lethal snorted, banging a paw upon the arm of his throne of bones, "I have defeated dozens, even hundreds, of foebeast in the past seasons before the peaceful times. Whatever enemy we face we shall conquer it!"

The Seer nodded appreciatively and continued.

"Aye, my Chief, thy skill in battle in unquestioned in these lands." He murmured as he added more herbs to the coals, "But there is more than just war ahead of us. The blue vultures...Blue has long been held by our tribe to be the color of contentment and generosity. To have that hue imposed on a vulture-the one who consumes death and yet still lives-is a good sign. It tends to mean...philanthropy, or caring for another..."

"Hmm..." Mogja was less sure of this sign. He stroked his thin sliver beard. "A calm and a war? What does it all mean?"

"There is one more mystery to ponder yet before I can answer that," Fayron answered, "There is still the white raven. Ordinarily the raven is the black deathbird, powerful and wise. But for the raven to be white implies an outlying purity, with a strong spirit beneath... A spirit that forebodes death."

"A war would mean death, marten," Mogja slouched in his chair, "So you mean to say that death will come to us with a pretty face?"

"That, or a threat will come masked as a benefit." Fayron warned, "Heed the omens, Chief Mogja, Lethal One, and your seasons of leadership will stretch on."

"Of course they will." Mogja slurped at his wine, "I am the Chieftain, and I make the rules. I decide where this tribe goes or stays. I have warriors and wisebeasts at my beck and call. A sly devil bringing us ill fortune in the guise of a friend is no obstacle." The big ferret stood. "Go, attend my son. I shall go now to speak with my warriors of this news. Fare well, Seer Fayron."

"You as well, my Chief," the pine marten bowed his head as the silverbeast swept past him. Spying the wine jug that had filled the Chief's goblet still sitting to the side of the bony throne, the black creature stood and paced over. He picked it up shakily and selected one of the more modest drinking vessels upturned on a stone bench nearby and filled it. With a deep sigh he took a sip of the rich but strong drink.

* * *

"You cannot do this! I am Dankwood, son of Sorghum the Slayer! Let me go!"

Four ferrets assigned to guard the miscreant tossed him unceremoniously into a cage of lashed green saplings with a tarp laid over its roof. They ignored his cries as he battered the strong bars, turning away and settling at the end of his shouting distance.

"I swear on my mother's grave," the weasel gripped the bars and bared his long white fangs, "You shall all pay! I'll make you pay! You'll all suffer before I'm done with you! So go on! Hide! Stuff your ears with plugs-I don't care! All the better for me to slit your nonsense-spouting throats when the time comes!"

Wincing, one of the big ferret warriors rolled his eyes and uncorked his flask of ale.

"Vulpuz help us, that idiot will scare every bird from the trees for three leagues the way he's shoutin'..." he said. One of his companions stopped beside him and leaned against a sturdy oak, a waiting paw grasping the flask as it was passed to him.

"Aye, but it's not our business to think about him, just watch that he don't try to get out before his time's done."

"I hope he gets let out soon. Lissen to that racket!" The ferrets cocked their ears.

"I shall tear your tails out by the roots! I-I will smash your fangs in! Your blood will run down the sides of every mountain! You are no warriors if you cannot even set me free and fight me one to one! Paw to claw! Let me_ gooooooo_!"

"Bloody moron," the first ferret chuckled, taking another drink in preparation for the grueling watch, "Betcha by the time he's twenty seasons he'll meet his match and get himself slain."

"Wouldn't be a surprise," his buddy smiled grimly, "Typical scumtripe behavior, you know."

"Aye, like all the others. What were their names?" The third ferret slumped against the other side of the tree, digging in his kilt's functional front pocket for a bit of bread wrapped in beechleaves. "One was something like 'Fragoh', or maybe "Ferago'. You lot remember?"

"Aye, Ferahgo's the one you're thinking of," the fourth ferret said as he popped the cork from a flask with his teeth, "And there was some Juska named Sawney Rath, and a rat bastard named Cluny, the Scourge they called him."

"Scourge of what?" The first ferret scoffed, "He's dead now, ain't he? Nobeast scourges with Vulpuz on the watch in the pits of Hellgates..."

The wind sighed through the trees, bringing a sharp cold to the watchers. They adjusted cloaks or cape edges against it, feeling a sudden disquiet.

"Brr... Hope he goes silent soon..." The second ferret scratched his ear, his claws numb.

"It gets freezing enough he will," the first assured him, glancing fearfully into the darkness. "Just remember not to fall asleep. 'Twill be cold enough to waken a crazy bat tonight..."

* * *

Here it be! A snippet of the past of the characters in "The Night". There shall be two, perhaps three, following this one! Remember to review! ;)


	2. The Traitor

The Traitor

* * *

That night the first snow of the cold seasons fell upon the woodlands. Where once the treetrunks were wreathed in gold and bronze foliage they were now encased in ice-crusted snow, deep as an otter's back paw. This was no trouble to the village of peaceful goodbeasts. They had brought in all of their harvest some days before, and they were glad to say that none was lost to the frosting.

Warmth was also not an issue, for though the fluffy frozen rains had come, the sun also shone that morning, jinxing the night's work to an early disappearance. What remained of the precipitation was turning steadily into drippy slush, in some places beginning to show bare soil and patches of inconvenienced grass. The little ones of the village payed no heed to how their elders stepped lightly through the unpleasant mush-throwing themselves in happily and stomping great prints much larger than their own footpaws were.

"Fur and famine, Meelain, get that insufferable brat inside before he catches his death of cold!" The speaker was an aged hare equipped with a stiff brow and eyes that shot romantic ideas to death in mid-flight. Not one of those wistful adventurers, she. Not one who had lusted for the march of Long Patrol, taking off on first whim and chance. No, she was a caregiver of youngbeasts, and those qualities were unsuited to that profession, "I said, Meelain, get that babe inside now! Blood 'n' thunder, he's sopping wet!"

The mousemaid the old harewife was ordering about stood up as if just waking. She was one of those wistful adventurers, able to run about on the faintest of fantasies. But her fantasy had gotten her into a great deal of trouble before-she would not ordinarily be aiding the old one to herd Dibbuns. Were it not for her minor crime, she would be off splashing about like the other young ones.

"I'm sorry, marm, I'll get him right away." She rose from her seat on the side of the low windowsill, wedged between two pies. As she dashed off, the ancient harewife leaned down to inspect the pies. Can't be too careful. The greengage was safe, but the blackberry and apple had a nibble missing from the crust edge. Squinting hard for evidence of whose teeth had done the deed, she spied a place in the wind-weathered wood where Meelain's claws had scratched out a simple message...

_I want to go past the trees._

The furrowed face of the harewife gave a fleeting smile. She had never been like that, but it did not stop her from feeling for the young heart that felt trapped in a tiny world. Come to think of it, she herself had never been beyond the confines of old Mossflower. They had grown up together, in a way. She had never even dreamed of leaving.

Still, vandalism was vandalism, even if it was inspiring the staunch caregiver's sympathies. Scooting the pies away, she retrieved a vial of wood repairing resin from one of many haphazard shelves scattered about the kitchen's walls.

"Myna, me ole dear, what's th' trouble?"

The voice belonged to another she had raised. A male hare, one of those that wasn't a wanderer but by no means was possessing of much brains either. Bluedrop, he was named. His wife was Gemma Withersfield, Master Withersfield's lucky single daughter. How Bluedrop secured the marriage Myna would never understand; he was such an annoyance even as he crept into the age of responsibility.

"Don't you talk t' me like that," she snapped, rubbing hard with the resinous rag at the scratched message in the windowsill. "Ain't been that long since I rocked you as an infant to shut up yore whinging mouth."

"Of... course, marm. I'll try to be more respectful in the future!" As he spoke he made a leg, dipping himself down well past his knees. Myna rolled her bagged eyes and pointed stiffly to a bundle hanging from a basket by the other window.

"Babe."

"Oh...Oh! Right, almost forgot about th' liddle gel..!"

Gemma's little daughter was lifted from the basket bassinet by the paws of her foolish father. She was wrapped in barkcloth that had been washed and beaten out so often that it had become soft a the fur on a dormouse's ear. His dun face and frazzled whiskers popping up in delight, Bluedrop looked nowhere but at the face of his baby girl, who was coming fussily out of a doze.

"Aww, isn't that my sleepy little filly? Sorry, did I wake you up, liddle one?"

Myna rolled her eyes at the horrid voice the male was putting on.

"Badgers' beards, Bluedrop, she's not one season yet. She can't understand a damn word ya say."

Bludrop covered the sleepy babe's flopped ears with one grey mitt, scowling at the nurse.

"Myna! Such language!" He busied himself over his tiny one again, brushing errant bits of fur away from her dewy eyes, "Right in front of my widdle one, such a meanie. That's right, Myna's an' ole meanie, Blythie..."

"Blythie..?" Myna looked up from scrubbing dirtied oven trays to shoot a quizzical look his way, "Her name's Blythe, leveret, and don't you forget it. Gemma chose that title for her little girl and that's what she'll be known as!"

"It's only a nickname, affectionate, y'know..?"

"No, I don't know. Your name's Bluedrop. How'd you feet it I took a liking to callin' you 'Bluebum' one day?"

The father hare stuck his coral pink tongue out to the great amusement of his little leveret. "I'd fancy that, marm. It's not untruthful, at least after the mid-season games. Ooch, never gonna volunteer to balance on a pole ever again, no sah..."

The tinkling bell sound of Gemma's chuckle in the doorway drew both of their gazes, Bluedrop with a fumble of the giggling babe and Myna with a severe gesture in the husband's direction. The young harewife in a winter gown of heavy fleece and long sleeves paced up the step into the kitchen and delicately reached for her little girl.

"How's my rare one?" The female's sweet voice hummed into her daughter's tiny nub ears. Myna huffed, hunching back over her work. Bluedrop put all his bodily effort into not dropping the infant as he passed Blythe on to her mother.

"She's been sleeping up a treat, love." The hare scratched his nose, "Bit like I wish I could do everyday... An eight hour nap sounds absolutely capital..."

"Hmph!" Myna's growl was audible from over the sloshing sudsy water in the washbasin.

"Sure, Blue..." Gemma pretended to roll her eyes at her husband's silliness, but couldn't eliminate the trace of a giggle crinkling her tan nose and lips, "Come, into the parlor, will you? I'm expecting Dochunn to come over and meet us up there. He has something to tell you..."

"Me?" Blue followed after his wife after a beat of bewildered staring, "What would that old hog want with me? I'm not one of his warriors."

"No, but he still wants you to hear him out. He said it was dreadfully important."

"He said it was 'dreadfully important'?"

Bluedrop winced and shrunk away as Gemma shifted the baby into one arm and raised the other one as if to slap him one. Retracting the violent gesture, she chuckled with good humor along with his nervous giggle.

"No, not exactly, but you know what I mean."

* * *

The morning came too soon for the frantically struggling beast gnawing his way through the green saplings of his prison cage. The snow had pushed into the sides of his pen, freezing and stiffening the poles that lashed him in. Jerking like a stricken partridge with the freezing temperature, Dankwood found that the cold had caused the small trees to shrink ever so slightly. Pressing his back against one corner, the weasel planted both footpaws on a single bar.

Suddenly he straightened his legs. The chill-weakened sapling strained, produced several grating crackles, then split into three spiraled fractures. His fangs rattled together as he grinned.

* * *

Fayron awoke from the cross-legged pose he had frozen himself in overnight. His stiffened body cracked and groaned as he stood in a fluid motion, creeping around the guttering smoulders of what was left of his tent's fire. He came to the doorflap and peeled it aside, his quick eyes taking stock of the half-molten snows outside and the dim forms of a few tribesbeasts who were up already.

The pine marten left the tent in silence, as ever. None of the other creatures nearby marked his passage.

The sun was beginning to shine out clearly, even in the deep treeshade of the inner woodlands. Fayron picked his path carefully, more from a want to keep his footpaws' joints pain-free than from a desire for stealth. Into the trees at the edge of the camp he went, shuffling his brown robes and eying each dead leaf and crust of frost as if critical of their presence.

The black-furred creature paused.

The sapling cage, reserved for punishing those who committed crimes of honor, was empty. Pacing about it with a turned head, the pine marten was reaching a venerable paw down to the splintered fragments of wood on one of the bars when the cold shock of metal on his neck hit him.

"What want you, Dankwood weasel?" He did not have to turn to see whichbeast it was that was holding the blade to his throat. He heard a snicker from behind and felt the steel wander up to the soft space beneath his chin.

"What d'you think I want, old one?" The weasel hissed into his ear with a bitterness that implied he would bite it were he more enraged, "Somebeast has to pay for taking what is mine!"

"Thievery is not the denial of what a greedy one seeks, weasel."

The blade pressed harder into the pine marten's neck.

"Now isn't the time for your damned wisdom, blackfur," Dankwood growled. "Now it the time for you to tell me what you saw."

"...Saw?"

"In your visions, daft one! What else does a Seer see?"

"Wish me to tell thee the meaning of visions mine?" The pine marten would have shaken his head, but being unable to do so he instead scoffed audibly at the beast's request, "My visions are for nobeast to steal. I speak to only Mogja. Ye shall answer to him in time, weasel, for this day. And for yesterday."

This time, Dankwood was unable to control his violent urge. He pulled the blade, a straight-edged sword, from the old creature's throat and spun him where he stood until he was facing the criminal.

"_You'll_ pay, Chief's dog!"

The sword rose in an arc of sunlight reflecting off the keen edge, upwards in a wild lash. The pine marten was too close and too feeble to jump away before the point of the sword bit him in the ribs and was torn across his chest. He fell on mixed snow and damp leaves, already stained by specks of his own blood.

The weasel turned away with no need to see the full extent of his own evil work. From the bushes there came a rustling sound, and the four ferret guards rose groaning.

In an instant the weasel's blood-spattered swordpoint was in the biggest one's face.

"Stand up, cur."

The ferret, unarmed as he was, did as he was bidden. Dankwood crooked a claw on his free paw over to where Fayron lay disheveled on the reddening ground.

"See that?"

The ferret nodded, numb with fear and shock.

"See what happens when anybeast steals from Dankwood, son of Sorghum?"

They all nodded.

"Nobeast else better steal from me, yes..?" The weasel's eyes bulged at the four mustelids. Their lips were tight with unspoken terror and their paws were useless, so disheartened by their morning discovery that they were powerless against the will of the traitorous beast.

Dankwood strode past each of them in turn, still pointing with his blade. He stopped on one of the smallest and stared hard into his face for what seemed an age upon an age.

"Tell me, dirt-tail, what power has the Seer?"

"...He has power of Spirit, over Death, over-_-_"

"_No he doesn't!_"

The weasel's paw snapped through the air like a whip, clubbing the ferret full in the snout and littering the trunk of a nearby birch with sprinkles of blood.

"I have the power of Death! I brought Death to him. And I can bring Death to you soon enough..."

He resumed his stride, glaring down at the next shortest ferret standing nearby. This ferret was clearly close to losing it, whimpering under his breath and shaking from both cold and horror. Dankwood leaned in until the point of the sword and his feverish eyeballs were mere inches from the ferret's.

"I am no Mogja, and I am not nearly as deadly as his son, but I have fought them both and lived! And I will continue to live! Anybeast standing against me will die a death not fit for a scum-sucking worm."

To illustrated his point, the weasel suddenly flung himself upon the largest of the ferrets, who was obviously much physically larger than himself. Taken by surprise, the ferret writhed on the ground under the punishing blows the traitor was giving out with the flat of his sword. Reaching down with his free claw, Dankwood added a final insult and injury by raking his nailtips across his victim's eyes.

"Hyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!"

Dankwood rose and stalked back and forth a few paces. All four ferrets were crumbling now, completely rendered useless to fighting back. The weasel grinned.

"Do you lot wish to die like that..?"

"...N-no, no we don't..."

"...Please, no..."

"Anything..."

Dankwood trod on the edge of the temporarily blinded mustelid's staghide kilt, stopping him from standing again.

"Serve me then. Follow me into battle. Do all I say."

The ferrets stared blankly at their aggressor, quietly weeping and fixated on the tip of the reddened sword...


End file.
